Drowned Sprat and Other Stories (11 page)

‘I want to go to bed with you,’ said the Carnivores Keeper, a long strand of red hair floating in her wine.

‘All right,’ she said.

It was the taste of the sea and warmth of all mammals.

It was the embrace of like to like.

It was the release of something caged to the wild.

‘Tonight?’ asked the Carnivores Keeper, her hair still wet from the bath.

She shook her head. It was Wednesday.

She met the Marine Mammals Keeper by the seal pool. He was lying on his tummy, stroking their heads.

‘Goodbye, my lovelies,’ he said.

‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ he asked her. ‘I’m exhausted and I’ve got a long journey tomorrow.’

But he couldn’t help himself, his suitcases by the door and a rare yearning for permanence. Out of habit, she addressed him with her buttocks.

‘As white,’ he said between them, ‘as the Poles.’

They woke early.

‘I’ll be two months in the Antarctic,’ he said, ‘and after that it’s home to Newfoundland. Will you meet me there?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

After he’d gone, she rang her friend.

‘He asked me to marry him,’ she said.

The Carnivores Keeper loved her. They hardly slept. It was a new country. And the Carnivores Keeper was so proud. Everybody at the zoo knew. She sat on her desk at lunchtime and fed her tidbits between kisses.

One day the Carnivores Keeper said, ‘I’m tired of all this
travelling. I spend half my life on trains. Let’s live together.’

‘That’s not a good idea,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving soon.’ It was necessary to tell her before any plans were made.

‘When?’ whispered the Carnivores Keeper.

‘In a month. My grandmother is ill.’

It seemed necessary to lie.

The Carnivores Keeper sulked. She hid at lunchtime. She turned away at night. She had roaring tantrums. She stopped eating.

On her last night they went to the same restaurant they’d been to before. The Carnivores Keeper’s hair was rough and dull, her eyes were puffy and she refused to order.

‘Do you love me?’ asked the Carnivores Keeper.

‘I don’t know.’

The Carnivores Keeper’s eyes were dirty brown bits of ice. The restaurant was filling up and the jukebox had gone quiet.

She finished the bottle of wine and realised she’d have to make the Carnivores Keeper hate her. From her purse she fished forty cents and handed it to her.

‘Go and put a song on,’ she said. ‘Something for me.’

The Carnivores Keeper squeezed her fingers as she took the money, but she wouldn’t meet her eyes.

There was a brick wall, the wrought iron bars, the long mane. There was a bottle.

And then she was standing, taking it by the neck and hurling it at a spot just above the Carnivores Keeper’s head. Pieces of green glass glittered in the Carnivores Keeper’s hands and face and dregs of red wine slipped from the wall to her prostrate body.

Thousands of feet above the earth she thought of them all below
her, going about their daily business, thinking of her, missing her. She decided it was the community aspect of life in hospitals and zoos that she liked. It was the effort everybody made for the common good that made them such friendly places. However, to find work in either type of institution in England would be like reliving history. She had to branch out into something else.

A flight attendant handed her a copy of
Time
with a photograph of Tony Blair on the front cover. Of course. Politics. Why hadn’t it occurred to her before? She imagined that politicians with their sedentary and mostly interior lifestyles would be softer and paler than their zoo-keeper counterparts. Possibly, despite the relative distance from animal manure, they would be sourer smelling. People who had stressful jobs often stank, she’d noticed. Bad smells were something she could live with, though. Hospitals and zoos abounded with them. Politicians were generally older than zoo-keepers, though, and perhaps she would benefit, therefore, by having more highly skilled lovers.

She smiled, a tremor of anticipation running through her body. As soon as she disembarked she would take the train to visit an old friend of her grandmother’s. He was sure to wield some influence, after his thirty years in the House of Lords. All she needed was a little job, perhaps as a receptionist in the foyer. Somewhere she would be noticed by the men and women who held the steering wheel and gear-stick of the nation.

Parliament! What havoc she would wreak! What a challenge, somehow to be infinitesimally more herself, and this time with global consequences.

Sometimes he wondered what the medical profession was coming to. Things had certainly changed since he was a youngster, seething with an anguished mixture of self-doubt and self-righteousness, straight out of medical school. Now, disgust rose in him like bile. That young chap over there, with the great mound of hair and tie-dyed shirt — how could he instil confidence in patients dressed like that? He was probably one of those turncoat GPs who favoured small bottles of pretend medicine and home-births.

Since the early sixties, twenty years ago, when he’d taken up his Remuera rooms, Mr Kitchener had favoured three-piece suits, hair-cream and bifocals. A stern-faced, white-starched receptionist, polished mahogany furniture and the odd false bone lying about seemed to instil in Kitchener’s patients the kind of respect a doctor needed to survive. A respect verging on awe — awe that
in some of the more nervous types spilled over into terror. The most nervous types were usually young mothers visiting him for the first time with babies sporting some kind of deformity. Their clear eyes would widen and pop as he outlined the surgery required, using the longest possible medical words. He was quite aware that most of the mothers had no idea what he was talking about, that he had lost them in the first few minutes. He’d perfected the technique of not letting them know he knew of their confusion, by turning his face to the light and allowing it to glare on his bifocals. That way his eyes, which might give something of this away, were concealed. He could get on with it. By the time he’d finished the women would be so baffled he could just shunt them out the door with no questions asked. Twenty minutes maximum per patient. It was an economical rule in terms of both financial return and his own energy. By its nature, its uniquely impersonal intimacy, surgery made for professional distance.

The manager of the CHE rose to speak. He was, in Kitchener’s opinion, a complete fool. The recent cuts to orthopaedics had been major, sweeping and imprecise. The young doctor in his tie-dyed shirt had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Bored or despairing? thought Kitchener. Possibly both. He lowered his glasses and glared over the top.

Wake up, young twerp! he thought. The young doctor opened his eyes to meet Kitchener’s. He blushed and worked his buttocks backwards on the squeaky vinyl chair. By his pasty complexion Kitchener judged him to be a vegetarian. And a GP. He’d never met a surgeon yet, orthopaedic or otherwise, who didn’t enjoy meat.

The chairman was introducing somebody, a hard-faced woman on his left. She stood and began to speak. American.
Another horrendous ‘overseas expert’ telling us how to decimate our health system, thought Kitchener. He closed his eyes.

After a moment the warmth of the theaterette and the rush of humidity from the faulty air-conditioning turned to something else. Ah. Fiji. That lovely holiday with his second wife in 1973. Lying on the beach, or by the pool, sipping cool alcohol and retiring to their bure, a bit pissed, for an afternoon of slippery sex. Rhonda had been keen on sex then. She’d liked the reassuring bulk of him, and his clean scrubbed hands. She’d squeaked and wriggled very convincingly. Later in life, of course, she’d told him she’d never enjoyed it, not properly. She told him she’d just given up hoping for an orgasm. She didn’t use that word, though — she called it a climax. She’d told him she probably could have had one, if he’d taken the trouble. People were so clinical these days. It occurred to him that as the public became more technically articulate, the medical profession became less so. It was a paradox …

Rhonda in those days, though — what eyes … what tits … what … what … What? That squeaking again. Rhonda? Kitchener opened his eyes.

It was that young GP, wriggling in his chair, the vinyl against his jeans. He was looking right at him. Kitchener glowered back and the GP lowered his eyes.

‘It’s my belief,’ the American was saying, ‘that the medical profession of this country would benefit greatly from a more competitive system. What price excellence? What price endeavour and enterprise? What price —’

Kitchener burped discreetly, behind his hand. The scallops mornay of his lunch — not very discreetly — returned. A dull ping of pain emanated from his prostate. The body. What a clumsy machine. He wondered, suddenly, at the sense of
spending a life devoted to rearranging the scaffolding in others and ignoring his own health. As a young man he had been described, by his mother in particular, as strapping. He’d come close to selection for the All Blacks; he’d run like a hound and swum like an otter. In his forties he’d given up smoking and the evening Scotch. Until recently he’d been described, by his wife in particular, as well preserved. No longer. He rubbed a hand over his sparse hair.

He would be well remembered, though. He’d made his mark — thousands of them on thousands of people. There was a sense of gratitude in the community at large, and he was a legend among the nursing profession. He couldn’t put an estimate on the number of theatre nurses he’d reduced to tears, or remember a quarter of the jokes he’d made at the expense of the anaesthetised, faulty bodies beneath his scalpel. Kitchener specialised in the hips and pelvis. Surgery on that part of the body allowed for exposed genitals, and genitals were good for laughs.

‘A peg for the nose!’ he’d bark, and as the theatre sister scuttled: ‘No! Not hers. Mine!’ Kitchener sniggered. He remembered with pride the time he’d made it compulsory for all theatre nurses to wear panties under their pantihose. To reduce pituite fallout, he’d said. He sniggered again and opened his eyes to silence. The American was staring at him. He raised an amiable hand, smiled, and she continued, glancing over at him now and again. He forced his face to give out an attentive expression to the room at large. A clock. Was there one?

Ah. Above the American’s head, but he couldn’t quite place the small hand. Half past something. Must be two. Only half an hour since the meeting began.

God help me, thought Kitchener. This could go on forever.

The manager rose and thanked the expert. Everyone clapped
politely, but most of the faces looked closed. A year ago, two years ago, every professional was worried about cuts to their department. Now the concerns were far more personal — everyone was expendable. Kitchener squinted to either side. A lot of the old faces were gone, either by attrition or early redundancy.

A great pity, thought Kitchener. Many of them were the best the country had to offer. In his opinion there was nobody to replace them, though of course the board found replacements. His own, for instance. Vittachi.

One of Kitchener’s five daughters from his first marriage had kept a black rabbit when she was a little girl. He was called Nigger, which was acceptable in the fifties. It was Nigger who came to mind now as his eyes rested on Vittachi, three rows ahead, on the aisle. The same bulging, timid eyes, the glossy black hair, small, mobile nose. Vittachi had obviously rushed straight here from the wards. He still wore his white coat and name badge and was paying attention to the manager, resting his elbows on his knees. Vittachi was gentle, so the story went, not like your usual orthopod. He took his time to explain things to patients and was respectful to the nursing staff. There was another story, unsubstantiated, that he used acupuncture for pain relief. Acupuncture for bone pain! May as well treat cardiac arrest with a cup of tea.

Now a grey-haired woman was speaking. It was that midwife person whose name escaped him for a moment. She’d caused a lot of trouble in the past, at the maternity hospital. Some of the best obstetricians had gone private, solely because of her. In Kitchener’s opinion she should have been shut up years ago. It was barbaric, what she wanted: women labouring at home with no pain relief, with nothing to save them or the infant if there
were complications. It struck him that she and he were of an age, possibly the most senior attendees of the meeting. The midwife spoke on, uninterrupted, which never would have happened when she first came on the scene. There wasn’t so much opposition to prehistoric and dangerous methods any more. They were perceived as ‘natural’ these days, and therefore safe.

Kitchener sighed heavily and wondered what Rhonda was doing at home. It was a longing kind of wonder — a desire to be there with her, watching her. He pictured himself in a casual shirt, on the terrace with its view over the pool to Rangitoto, reading the paper, reaching out to tap Rhonda on the backside as she passed with a tray of coffee and cake. And Rhonda turning to look at him, with a wondering smile. Perhaps he’d pull her onto his knee and together they’d sit and watch the garden, the heads of the chrysanthemums bobbing in the breeze. Maybe he could coax her upstairs. How long had it been now? A year, two years, more? Rhonda was only forty-two, twenty years his junior, and she’d never had children herself. Her body was that of a woman in her mid-thirties, but she’d lost interest in sex.

At first, if he’d asked, she’d give him a reason.

‘You’re never home’ was one of them. ‘You should have let me have a baby’ was another, then ‘I’m beginning the change.’

On the rare occasions he was in bed before her, hope would well in his breast. He’d watch her brush her hair, apply face cream, put on her nightie and he’d think — tonight, maybe tonight. But inevitably Rhonda would get into bed, often with an irritating little-girl smile, turn on her lamp and open her book. Once, aeons ago now, he’d taken the book away. She’d clamped her hands to her face and with a tiny, sad voice begged to be left alone. What did she expect him to do? he wondered. Give up on her? Give up on sex? Did she want him to consider himself old,
past all that? He wasn’t. He most certainly wasn’t. And he was home now, wasn’t he? He was home all the time.

The midwife was still talking. She was getting emotional.

‘If labouring women are treated as ill patients they will think of themselves as ill. The obvious solution is to regard a labouring woman as an individual experiencing great power and strength. Money previously assigned to upgrading delivery suites should be redirected into pre-natal education. Easy births don’t just happen on the day, they happen because the woman has been preparing for the birth for many months …’

Kitchener brought his hand to his mouth and yawned.

Why doesn’t the manager use that greasy manner he was born with to politely shut her up? he wondered. She certainly wasn’t speaking for all women. Jean, his first wife, for instance — she’d cried out for painkillers with the first contractions. By the time each of the five children was born, she was out cold.

The midwife returned to her seat amid enthusiastic applause from a group of women somewhere to Kitchener’s left. A beeper sounded, high and piercing above the clapping, and Vittachi leapt to his feat. Kitchener watched him as he passed at a fast clip, his glossy head pushed forward ahead of his polished shoes. The older man envied the younger one’s escape.

The manager was thanking the midwife and calling on the American to comment. The little blonde had a supercilious expression on her face. As she took her position centre stage she maintained eye contact with the midwife. She would address all her remarks to her: it stood to become a personalised slanging match.

Kitchener wished he had a bleeper too. This meeting was mainly for professionals who were working in women’s health — gynaecologist obstetricians, midwives, pre- and post-natal physiotherapists,
social workers. Kitchener had only attended because he wanted to see what Vittachi would be up against. Vittachi! Kitchener had taught him everything he knew. After the boy had arrived from Malaysia and re-sat his medical examinations, he’d assisted Kitchener with hip replacements and pelvic surgery, standing across the table. Very often he’d made some extraordinary suggestions and once or twice Kitchener had allowed him to carry them out.

The midwife called out from the floor: ‘Yes! But your situation in the United States is entirely different to our —’

‘Order!’ said the manager.

There was another bleeper and Kitchener had a brainwave. He stood, patting his suit pocket as though it held the offending instrument. Behind him a chair scraped back as the genuinely electronically summoned professional scrambled up, a female house surgeon. Kitchener smiled apologetically at the manager and followed the young woman out.

In the foyer he felt vaguely foolish. Why had he bothered with that charade? He could just as easily have stood and left, with no questions asked. He strode on, purposefully, out into the day. The sun blazed but there was a cold wind, which picked up the dust from the demolition site beyond the carpark and whipped it into his eyes. It was the old nurses’ home they were knocking down, a handsome building of pale brick that dated from the Great War, laced with fire escapes. Now it was rubble, mounds of broken stone, with the fire escapes protruding here and there, bent like skinny, entreating arms.

He would go home, he decided, setting off towards his car, which waited in the doctors’ carpark behind the administration building. But at the main entrance he paused. Something was drawing him inside, past the admitting desk to the lifts. He pressed
the buttons that would take him to the fourth floor, to the ward he used to share with one or two other orthopaedic surgeons, but was now Vittachi’s domain.

Kitchener coasted down the polished corridors. There were blue stickers beside at least two-thirds of the patients’ names outside the rooms. Blue stickers used to denote that the patient was Kitchener’s. Now it meant Vittachi. There was Vittachi himself, bending over a bed that contained a young man. An accident victim, perhaps — his name tag was festooned with stickers: red, yellow, green and blue. Just about every surgeon in the place must have had a go at him. Vittachi was pressing and prodding, speaking too softly for Kitchener, who stood concealed outside the door, to hear.

‘Excuse me, sir, can I help you?’ It was a nurse, nineteen or twenty, fresh and keen. She had no idea, obviously, of who he was. Kitchener gave her one of his most withering looks and continued on down the corridor. He sensed rather than saw the young nurse stop another nurse, and point after him.